


Scabs

by Kanthia



Series: These Things Are All Connected [4]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Gen, Religion, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-15 02:31:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9214883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kanthia/pseuds/Kanthia
Summary: “But -- still.” Tiki folds her hands in her lap. “Who decided that she should be reborn? And where is she now?”





	

**01**

In Akaneia there are too many gods to count, and no one person could be expected to worship them all. The priests in Ylisse worship the Divine Dragon, the Grimleal the Fell Dragon, and the merchant sisters Xane the Trickster, who was said to have given up his divine form to better sucker good people out of their belongings. There are cults to other gods, of course: the Valmese solipsists who worship Tiki above Naga, believing only in those gods who deign to walk among mortals; the Pyrathi, fishermen and islanders in the east reaches of Ylisse who worship Mannu and Bantu as the sun and the moon, and use fire in all their most sacred rituals; the materialists in Chon’sin who see all living beings as divine, Naga’s blessing in all the earth; and there are more, so many more. When Ylisseans whisper _gods_ it is not slandering Naga’s power but rather accepting the world for what it is.

But the world was not always that way: long before the priests in Ylisse built shrines to their old gods, Naga was nothing but a manakete, the king-queen of the Divine Dragons.

“Deified by her love of humanity,” Libra murmurs. “Reincarnated endlessly throughout countless years, it is said that she still walks among us today.”

The priests build orphanages as places of worship, with respect to the Hero King orphaned in the opening act of the War of the Dark Dragon: Naga’s domains are children, and wind, and the change of seasons. The faithful practice honesty, celebrate coming-of-age, and embrace confession as a spiritual act.

 “I don’t doubt that,” Tiki says, sleepily.

Most of Naga’s priests are trinitarians. Their evening worship opens with _the body, the Voice, the dragon’s spirit_ in recognition of the god endlessly reincarnate, the Voice sleeping in the Great Mila Tree, the presence still palpable in all things.

“But -- still.” Tiki folds her hands in her lap. “Who decided that she should be reborn? And where is she now?”

( _Blasphemy,_ Libra thinks, but she’s not wrong. There are things more powerful than fate.)  


**02**  

The Plegians, for the most part, worship Grima only through force of habit or for their own protection, for their king is a vile despot who squirrels away his country’s wealth, and the Grimleal demand nothing but loyalty in return for supper. To worship Grima is to accept that all things began and all things end in ruin. The Grimleal do not recognize the cycle of seasons, only the forward march of time; their calendar has no months, only years since Grima’s last death, and too many of their holidays are celebrated with human sacrifice.

 _Steel yourself and forget your sister_ , a peasant might say to their child. _Tonight we’ll feast on meat._

“It’s not about whether or not you believe, is it?” Tharja’s stirring the dinner pot absentmindedly, more interested in the thick garlicky scum forming at the bottom of the pot. When dinner is finished she’ll save that scum for a hex that wards off curses meant to affect soldiers’ morale. “The gods are real, whether you like it or not. You pray to whoever’s most likely to eat you last.”

Libra's not sure if he wants a world with gods who devour, but something in Lucina’s eyes always tells him that it was never a question of want.

Tharja, excited by his discomfort, tells him of the Imhullu: blasphemers among the Grimleal who worship Grima’s forebearers, they also call themselves the Cult of the Earth Dragon or the Children of Gharnef. “My mother was an Imhullu. They’re wicked folk, and the Grimleal had her head for it. Told me that Grima would eat me first for her sins.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I don’t believe Grima _wouldn’t_ eat my first.” And she chuckles, setting goosebumps on the back of Libra’s neck.

(Henry once told Libra that he couldn’t believe in any gods. When Libra had pressed, Henry had acquiesced: _there aren’t_ **_no_ ** _gods,_ he’d said. _They’ve just never cared much for a little guy like me._ And he’d laughed, and laughed, and laughed.)  


**  
03**  

Gaius, as it turns out, was raised among the Pyrathi.

“Don’t beat yourself up for it, Padre,” Gaius says, when Libra finds out. The church struggles with the idea of conversion in the uncertain years after the reign of Jarrod the Cruel. “The gods and all their rules really don’t mean much to me. I’d say I do a pretty decent job of looking after myself. Want some cobbler?”

Yes, Libra would like some cobbler. It’s a quiet night, cool and still, and one could almost forgive a world this beautiful for throwing them into such a terrible war. Libra had been conducting his evening vespers by the fire while Gaius had stirred a pot of something warm and fruity and spiced with cinnamon.

Anna throws a log on the fire. Gaius ambles over to the supply cart and comes back with three bowls. “My sisters met them, you know,” she says. “We have records going all the way back.”

“Your family fought with Marth, then?”

“Well, we sold them gear, which is close enough!” She laughs, the easy laugh of someone who is not afraid of death. “There was a manakete who travelled among them, a real strange fellow named Xane. Gave up his ability to turn into a dragon for the ability to turn into other people, so he could better swindle ‘em. That’s the only god for us.”

A dragon and a god are not the same thing, and Anna must know that; but still, in that moment, Libra thinks he understands what she means.

 

**04**

Priam thanks him for his interest and tells him about the way the earth breathes, how the world inhales order and exhales chaos. Those who walk with his belief call themselves the Priori and speak of a bird-manakete named Yune. They have no calendar, but worship the change of seasons. The Ylissean-born among his mercenaries also call themselves the Aetheri and hold their breath for moments with Chrom and Lucina shine like the night sky.

“It was not my intention to turn Aether into something to be worshipped,” he says, as the two of them chop wood. “I’d always felt that the gods bless those who help themselves, that the difference between nobility and commoner was only due to the whims of history. My whole life I’d sought that power, and then --”

It had been a beautiful day, a deliriously blue sky hanging above the valley, when Lucina had strode into the thick of battle and spoke the word _Aether_. Libra does not believe in hero-worship or deifying mortals, but something hangs in the air about Chrom and Robin after the Awakening, some sort of power or promise that gives him pause. Does it anger him, the way gods play chess with mortals?

“I’d like to think strength and my purpose are my own. The gods may do as they please, as long as we retain our free will.”

That evening Libra thanks Naga for the gift of free will, for blessing humanity with the capacity to do evil. Nah sits at his side and listens quietly, and wonders.

 

**05**

There are sects of the Ylissean canon that recognize only the Naga’s spirit, aesthetists, most of them cloistered in stone temples to the north. The hard winters and permafrost make burial tricky business, so most corpses are burned after death. The aesthetists and the war priests in Regna Ferox wonder openly if anything persists beyond a strong spirit; they argue that Naga had never been reincarnated, that the Voice would never reappear -- and yet there she is, dozing by the firepit, her head on Say’ri’s shoulder, her dinner unfinished in her lap.

Is it blasphemy to pray in the presence of the gods themselves? She looks so peaceful, as though she had never been stolen from another world in another time to fight in another war. Libra bends at the knee, folds his hands: _the body, the Voice, the dragon’s spirit, in thy name --_

“Naga listens, you know,” Tiki murmurs, sleepily, beside him.

“-- I have no doubt.”

“Immortality comes as a great burden. The desire to help, and the inability to do so, causes Naga great pain.”

“Perhaps our belief brings Naga some comfort,” Say’ri adds, stroking Tiki’s hair gently. “Perhaps she can rest easy knowing her spirit resides in us all.”

Tiki yawns, stretches, blinks thrice, then looks to Libra as though seeing him for the first time.

“Yes,” she says, “While I was sleeping -- a blonde woman -- or a man, perhaps -- with my mother’s spirit -- ”

(Much later, when the fire is only embers and an ill wind is in the heart of the night, Tiki says, _did you know?_

Libra says, _in a manner of speaking, I have always known._

Tiki says, _I did not -- we did not intend -- I am sorry, Libra._ )

 

**06**

There are some Ylissean blasphemers who worship a different kind of god, the one that led Marth to ruin Gra and stick its fang through the Earth Dragon, sowing the ground with its blood. Those are the Nagi, a troublesome cult that refuses to accept Emmeryn or Chrom as legitimate heirs; they await the second coming of their father, Jarrod the Cruel, who will surely finish the ruination of Plegia as Marth’s army once did.

The priests in their orphanages pray for such battle-ruined souls, but they cannot deny that Falchion was forged from Naga’s mouth, and she will never walk in a world without swords. Hers is an earth that allows suffering.

(Naga’s blood suits human flesh quite nicely. Chrom, on occasion, complains of an itch in his sword arm he can’t quite scratch.)

“It bothers me, of course,” Robin says. She’d called Libra to her tent to discuss the very issue: the Nagi have discovered the presence of a mysterious warrior who calls themselves Marth among the Shepherds, a blue-haired youth wielding Falchion and capable of performing Aether. It is the second coming, they argue. Chrom has been deposed. Marth is the true heir of the Ylissian throne, and they will accept no other Exalt. “We can’t ask Lucina to handle this.”

“It is not her crisis.”

“Faith is so complicated.” Robin sighs, and slumps at her chair. Had she always been so ashy in her complexion, so dark under the eyes, so limp? Grima’s shadow looms in her, and there is a decision to be made.

“Robin, I --” There’s a lump of words in his mouth begging to be spat out, the narcissist in him that screams, _I, too, am burdened with a purpose heavier than death_. He tries again: “Robin, I’m --” She looks up. He clears his throat. “-- This is not your fault. Nor is it your responsibility.”

“I know, but.” She swallows, hard. “Libra.” Her voice cracks, and the tent gets very quiet. “There’s a cult that worships me, worships my birth, my -- my destiny. What am I supposed to do? How do you defy a god like that, when the god’s -- you?”

Libra knows little about Grima and its will to live, and there are teachings from his childhood that he should be repeating: living is harder than dying, and one must always choose the struggle; one must always give thanks; Naga is a kind god. He places a hand on her shoulder and she flinches, as though burned. He understands the impulse, but cannot back down -- how cruel that their gods have condemned them to suffer so. Instead he gathers Robin in his arms and holds her as she sobs, and sobs, and sobs.

 

**07**

After his evening prayers Libra finds a moment alone in his tent to rub a little balm into his knees. The weather has been cool and dry, and some days the skin gets so aggravated it cracks and bleeds into his robes; scabby knees a small price to pay for a future worth living in. Tomorrow they will ascend Origin Peak, and thus Libra has spent much of the day among the soldiers, hearing their confessions, assuaging their fears, giving them their last rites. He’s tired, through his shoulders and ribs to his heavy, heavy heart.

There’s a rustle at the tent flap and he has half a mind to politely ask whoever it is for some space, but it’s the Exalt who enters.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Chrom says, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s still in his regalia, looking stern and austere and unflappable. His father had the same noble bearing about him, and it has made Chrom unpopular: too moderate for the Nagi, too much a reflection of Jarrod the Cruel for the rest of them.

“Nothing important, milord.”

Then Chrom’s shoulders sag a little, and he clears his throat. “May I, uh --”

How unlike his father.

Libra hears his confession, sanctifies his insecurities, blesses his sword arm. (“Not the weapon, milord,” Libra murmurs. “No axe can chop wood on its own, but a cold man can start a fire with his bare hands.”) He advises the Exalt on church duties and holds Chrom’s head as he weeps, despondent, for his poor sister, and the choice she had made.

And, finally, when the hour has become late, Chrom breathes deep through his nose and straightens his back. “Thank you, Libra,” he says.

“It is an honour to serve the Exalt,” Libra returns.

“There’s, uh.” He looks down and to the right, drums his fingers on Falchion’s hilt. “There’s talk about, um. Soldiers -- er, that is -- people, a lot of people want you to come back to Ylisstol. After the war. They’re calling for you to be crowned, uh, that is, to become Pope, you know, at the same time as my -- my coronation.”

“Is that so.”

“Word’s gotten out that you might be --”  
  
“--Please, milord.”

“I know.” Chrom runs a hand through his hair, then sinks, most ignobly, onto the cot beside Libra. “Gods, I know. I’ll ask nothing of the sort from you, only leave the opportunity available. If it pleases you. But is there anything I can do to convince you at least to stay near Ylisstol? In case -- in case I need something like this again?”

It’s an honour, an absurd honour. A wretch, an unloved urchin masquerading as a priest who hears the confession of the Exalt? And yet Chrom looks to him with eyes full of hope. An idea blooms in Libra’s head. He may never have the makings of a fearsome man of the cloth, or a great Pope, but perhaps if the orphanage was moved to within Ylisstol’s borders -- given a new coat of paint and a fresh start -- a little chapel in the east wing, where royalty and peasants alike could come and go as they pleased --

 

**08**

Astride Grima’s broad back Libra is struck with an odd sense of deja vu. Has he done this before? No, of course he has not, as neither had Naga -- he is just a vessel, after all, an empty body for Naga to fill with her voice, and her spirit.

Then the emptiness in him, it was not his narcissism nor his longing or pain or darkness; he had not been condemned to suffer, but rather had been given the chance to live among mortals. The gods themselves walk amongst the Exalt’s Shepherds: Grima, yes, but Naga as well, in all her capacities and all her forms. There are few things more powerful than fate.

The eve of the apocalypse is a strange time for a moment of such profundity. It’s almost beautiful, the scene in front of him: perhaps after his evening prayers, when all is said and done, he’ll gather those purples and greys and searing bright whites on a canvas, paint something horrible, something truly heretical. He finds himself on the verge of laughter as he brings down his axe again, and again, and again.

**Author's Note:**

> _Libra - Fetching Friar_   
>  _Many an unfortunate child found joy in the small orphanage Libra built after the war. People believed the kind, beautiful priest to be an incarnation of Naga, and he was courted by women and men alike._
> 
>  
> 
> (find me, as always, on [tumblr](http://kanthia.tumblr.com/))


End file.
